


time and the world are ever in flight

by leilariddle



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Fluff, Ghost!Peter, Kid Fic (only second chapter), M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicidal Thoughts, Werefox Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-12 00:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19218205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leilariddle/pseuds/leilariddle
Summary: Stiles is twenty five years old, and has lived through 277 lifetimes.He's searching for his North Star.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how long this fic is going to be, when I'll update, or if I'm ever going to finish it.
> 
> If y'all leave comments, it's going to help me write faster!
> 
> As always, English is not my native language so let me know if there are any spelling mistakes.

_2022._

The rain falls like bullets around Stiles as he walks home from work. However, the streets are not nearly deserted in the busy Chicago, what with people in their cars honking at each other to hurry up at the traffic lights, and people soaked from head to toe almost running along the sidewalk to take cover under the nearest dry place. Stiles doesn't mind the rain, even though it's freezing on his face and his hands have gone numb. It is good for contemplation, he realizes.

Stiles is not normal.

Although there's nothing on the surface that may give away this fact to other people, it's true: Stiles is twenty five years old and has lived through 227 lifetimes, including this one. He can remember each and every lifetime he's ever had so far; not as vividly as he would like though, just snippets of memories he treasures in his mind. He's never told a single soul about it, but he's on his search for his North Star.

Stiles knows this every time his memory starts to recall the events of his past lives, always around the age of five. Sometimes they would come as dreams, sometimes déjà vus that make everything around him feel as tangible and real as if he's inside the memory, _living_ it again. Stiles knows he's on a search for someone, and he must search for them across all of his lifetimes. He has no clues about them, or what they look like. Although almost every time Stiles ends up meeting a man, and his little tattoo on his right wrist shines like threads of gold under the sunlight telling Stiles _himhimhim_ , he's met his North Star as women, and it hasn't been any different.

It's always a religious experience to meet his North Star.

There are lifetimes were nothing happens, though. Stiles lives whatever life the universe has planned for him, be it a good one or a bad one, a happy one or a sad one. But Stiles knows, he knows that his North Star does not exist in those lifetimes and, even if he has everything he could ask for, there is always and without a fault a hole in his soul that he cannot fill. A sense of emptiness, and crippling sadness...

... he never lives much longer when, in those lifetimes, the little tattoo on his right wrist starts to fade.

Stiles is not afraid of death.

He knows that at the end of every lifetime, the other one is just around the corner. He knows he comes back every time for his North Star, even for those lifetimes when they barely meet. Stiles just gets glimpses of them, when they pass one another on the street, when his North Star asks him for directions and then go their own way, or when they lend a hand to each other like any good samaritan would. Sometimes it's enough for Stiles, and his soul tells him so. Still, every time anything of that happens he has to force his feet to walk away from them, only taking comfort in the warmth of the golden little tattoo shining brightly as a symbol of having met his North Star.

So now Stiles walks to his little apartment in the noisy part of the city that he calls home. He gets there, and helps old Mrs. Sanderson with her groceries. She's a nice lady who lives one floor above him and beams whenever she sees Stiles, always giving him some homemade food as thanks for his help. When he's done carrying the groceries to the 5B and putting them away, he leaves and walks downstairs to his own apartment. Stiles lifts the right sleeve of his shirt and stares at his little tattoo, pitch black against his milky skin. So much for Mrs. Sanderson being his North Star.

It should be a ridiculous idea, but it isn't. There was one memorable lifetime where Stiles had met his North Star, an elderly man on the final stages of his life due to pancreatic cancer. The universe always conspires for Stiles to meet his North Star if the latter does exist in that lifetime, so Stiles had met him when he was working as an orderly at a hospital in 1982 Richmond, Virginia. His little tattoo had started burning as Stiles saw the man being brought into the intensive care ward. His soul had cried in anguish as he _felt_ the man dying, painful like all those other times that Stiles had seen or felt his North Star die.

So Stiles eats and takes a shower. It's Friday night, and he thinks of going out for a beer by himself. More often than not, he never has much friends in his lifetimes. He remembers one in particular, some twenty or thirty lifetimes ago: his name was Scott, and he'd been friends with Stiles since their childhoods. They had lived in London in the 30s, and when Stiles had started remembering, he'd thought Scott was the one. They'd been hand in glove, even though the little tattoo had never turned gold. However, Stiles had felt that overwhelming pain when he'd learned that Scott had been one of the many victims of the Blitz, only feeling a bit of relief when Stiles had met his true North Star on the front line, fighting the Nazis.

Stiles goes out. The rain has stopped, although the biting cold still remains. He goes to the nearest bar, and takes a seat on the far corner next to the large window. He has an excellent view of the door, and an hour in, the bar starts quickly filling out. There is a familiar tingling feeling that makes Stiles reach for his little tattoo almost unconsciously. It's still black, but Stiles has a good feeling about this nonetheless. And he knows for sure when he sees a group of men coming in and take their seats on the counter stools. Stiles feels more than he sees his little tattoo starting to turn gold, and although he's lived 277 lifetimes, there's nothing that could explain the excitement and nervousness and outright _terror_.

It's a man. He's blond with piercing blue eyes. He laughs at whatever his friend says, and the sound warms Stiles all over like rays of sunlight. Stiles feels giddy as he stares at the man, doing it for the rest of the night, fascinated like the first time. He gets the chance to catch the man alone when the latter goes to the restroom a couple of hours later. Stiles traces his finger over the golden little tattoo before he stands up and follows the man.

For convenience, Stiles starts calling the man Peter in his mind. It was the name his North Star had had the first time Stiles had met him, namely his first lifetime. Peter had been a werewolf, Stiles a teenage human boy with a sharp mind who had caught on quickly with what was going on in the small town of Beacon Hills, California. Later, Stiles had spent his second and third lifetime living in Beacon Hills, waiting to meet Peter there again. On the third, he'd met a brilliant and kind woman called Lydia, and they'd lived the rest of their lives as best friends and forever bachelors.

Stiles now knows that not every lifetime where he never meets his North Star has to be a bad one.

Stiles comes in, and sees Peter washing his hands. He knows that he shouldn't be standing there and gaping like a fish, but he can't help it. He knows his North Star, remembers him from hundreds of hundreds of lifetimes, and in most of them it was Peter who had taken the first step. And hey, Stiles does have a personality he's kept with him through all these lifetimes, so he won't be starting breaking with that tradition anytime soon.

Peter meets his eyes on the mirror, and _scoffs_.

Stiles feels his soul twisting, but he's not worried. There have been a few Peters, and a couple of Hannahs (this was the name of his North Star when Stiles had first met her, too), who had been discerning at first. Some of them had grown out of this in time, so Stiles had to learn to have the patience of a saint. Others had ended up in failed dates, and one time with Stiles' death at the hands of his North Star, who had turned out to be a serial killer. Since then, Stiles had become a bit more careful.

Peter smirks as he shoulders past Stiles on the way out, and Stiles feels cold all over. He also feels a sudden searing pain on his right wrist, and when he looks at the tattoo, he sees it starting to fade around the corners, turning a greyish color. Stiles feels tears welling up in his eyes; he wants to go back to the bar and tell Peter everything, anything. But he can't, his little tattoo and his soul and the fucking universe have decided this time it isn't meant to be. The tattoo fades slowly but surely, painfully. Stiles hisses and runs to the sink, turning on the tap and putting his wrist under the spray of cool water. And he cries, and cries...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't plan to update so soon, but I was inspired. I wrote this at 5 am so it's unbetaed af.
> 
> Comments make me happy, and help me a lot!

_2005._

When they meet as kids, Stiles is ready.

It's a cold night, but Stiles kicks off his blankets as he squirms in bed. He's eight years old, but he's used to this from his other lifetimes. It burns, and hurts like nothing else, and he has to bite on his pillow to stop himself from screaming and wake his mom. There are some lifetimes when the little tattoo on his wrist doesn't appear inmediately after he regains his memories, but later on. It has never appeared on him as a kid, however, so he's really excited, and he finds being excited actually helps him deal with the pain. Stiles watches as his skin slowly gives way to the pitch black, the left corner of the tattoo. For what he can remember, it's going to take all night until it's finally over, but Stiles is not afraid. He remembers his lifetimes, he remembers Peter in all his forms, he knows they're going to meet. Everything in Stiles tells him so. Whether it's going to end well or not, that's for the universe to say. But he still trusts, he still _believes_ , so it's gotta count for something.

He's been having this feeling in his gut for a few weeks now. Tomorrow it's going to be his first day of school; he's going to be a third-grader now. Stiles thinks it's not a coincidence his tattoo is making its appearance now, so it has to be a sign. Tomorrow he's going to meet Peter, and he can't wait. Stiles wonders if he's going to meet Peter as an adult or a kid, if it's going to be at school or after; the possibilities are endless, he's known this since the beginning. He thinks it's a good thing, because else he would have gotten pretty bored with it all very quickly. Some things don't change: he's still a curious and hyperactive little shit, so maybe that's not entirely true.

What is a fact, however, it's that in this lifetime Stiles is even less normal than he ever thought he was. When he'd met Peter in his first lifetime, Peter had been a werewolf. They had met because Stiles had found a body in the woods, and decided to go investigate. His father had been the Sheriff, so Stiles had needed to be careful creeping around a crime scene while his dad was there too, but he'd managed pretty well... _except_. Except Peter had attacked him as a werewolf, and the body had ended up being Peter's niece. Who was also a werewolf. And then Stiles had met Peter's nephew, Derek, who was _also_ a werewolf.

And then Stiles was one too.

At first, Stiles had freaked out a bit, but then his curiosity had taken over so his researching phase had begun. He'd gotten help from Derek during the full moons, and they'd become something akin to friends, because really it was _Derek_. And they hadn't known the one killing all those people was Peter until, well, they did.

It was the first time Stiles had seen Peter in his true form, and he'd thought he was going to die.

Literally.

But something else had happened too. And Stiles is nothing if not _logical_. It is something he prides himself in, but back then it had scared him too. Because he had understood Peter's reasoning: the hunters had burned him and his family, his pack alive, he had made it out only to end up in the hospital, catatonic and badly burned, with his only family left having deserted him. Stiles could never condone Laura's death at Peter's hands, but he objectively understands why it had to be done: so Peter could heal faster, and avenge his pack. So he could be stronger than the real bad guys. It was pure revenge, nothing more and nothing less.

Still, it hadn't stopped Stiles from throwing Peter a Molotov cocktail. It hadn't stopped Stiles from walking away while Derek slashed Peter's throat.

Sometimes Stiles thought if maybe that's where everything had started. Butterfly effect, all your actions have consequences, and that kind of crap. Is this what he gets from helping Peter be killed the first time around? Being in this sort of loop, forever? Fated to search for him in every lifetime, never to really die, never to rest in peace? This questions had kept an older Stiles tossing and turning around in his bed for more than a thousand nights.

But this Stiles has nothing to worry about except the present, his tattoo being seared into his skin, awaiting the day it will burn again and start turning a blinding gold. He has a good feeling about tomorrow. So he keeps holding on.

* * *

Stiles remembers his mom. His real mom. She had been as kind as the one he has now, but not the same. Her name had been Claudia, and she would always read him a bedtime story if he'd been good that day. Sometimes she would say, ' _an extra one for your extra effort, my little Mischief_ '. Which meant Stiles had gotten an extra story almost every day, even if he hadn't behaved that day. He would never tell his mom, though, and she wouldn't mention it either.

Still, he remembers missing those times, much more so when his mom kept staying in the hospital a little bit longer each time she had her episodes. He still misses her, and his dad too, but he never says.

His current mom holds Stiles' hand as they walk from home to school for his first day. She's kind, and has a sweet voice while she reassures him that it's going to be okay, and he'll make a lot of friends. They had moved to New England in the summer because of her job. She had used that same sweet voice while they were packing their bags to tell him he had nothing to fear, that changes might be big and scary, but she is going to always be there for him. Each step of the way, whatever happens.

Stiles can't tell her that changes are the last thing he's afraid of, that instead he _seeks_ them. Because he knows that every little change in his life is going to lead to the day he meets Peter, and it's worth it. So very worth it.

Stiles lets her ramble on until they get to school, and she walks him to his classroom door. She kisses him in each cheek, and then on the forehead for good luck before she sends him on his way. Stiles takes a deep breath, his heart fluttering nervously in his chest, before he enters the classroom.

The colors on the walls assault his eyes, but it's only a fleeting distraction before he begins to see the big picture. There are some kids already sitting on their desks, but most of them are running around, laughing or talking, or shouting. The teacher is there too, talking to the parents of a little girl who is crying and clutching at her mom's dress, trying to hide behind her from the big scary fact of being a third-grader. She looks at Stiles and he smiles at her, but she lowers her gaze so he carries on. He finds that the desks on the back are all taken, so he sits next to the wall almost at the front.

Stiles surveys each and every one of his classmates, but his little tattoo gives no sign of having found Peter. He's a bit disappointed, and even more so when the teacher claps her hands and everyone takes a seat, ready to begin with the first day.

Stiles is bent down to get his textbook out of his backpack when he hears the door open. His heart leaps up to his throat and almost drops the book, but when he looks up, he does. The teacher is crouching and talking to a dark haired boy who is giving his back to Stiles, but he doesn't need the boy to turn around. Stiles knows, and his tattoo does too, and he feels everything around him spinning around, and it's so so _right_ he wants to laugh and scream, and run to Peter. Hold him and never let go. He can't listen to anything else, he can only just stare and smile while his soul seems to be doing cartwheels.

Stiles hasn't realized there are no empty seats anywhere else before Peter slides in next to him, picking up Stiles' forgotten textbook from the floor and offering it to him.

"Is this yours?"

Stiles nods so hard he could break his own neck, and takes it.

"I'm Nate, by the way. Nate Marshall. And you?", asks Peter as he puts his own textbook onto the desk.

 _You're Peter. My North Star._ "Stiles. Nice to meet you." _You're here, you're here and I love you._

If there's one thing Stiles can control about his lifetimes, it's keeping his nickname. When he was a kid in his first lifetime, he couldn't say his own name. _Mieczysław_. He could only say _Mischief_ , but his mom would never get mad for that. Instead, she smiled and started to call him that until it had become a bit embarrassing to be called that in front of his friends, and he'd come up with _Stiles_. So he keeps it, and his current mom has reluctantly accepted. Not every mom he's had since then used to do it, but this one does and it makes her earn points in Stiles' imaginary board.

He's not going to start calling Peter  _Nate_  anytime soon. In his head, of course.

He and Peter become fast friends, and Stiles is so happy he could burst. They do everything together: from being partners in class, to eating lunch together, to making up strategies for when they get selected into the same team in gym class. Everyone knows that if they want to find one of them, they need to find the other first. _'Hand in glove, those two'_ , they say, and they're absolutely right. Peter is brilliant, as he always is, as he's always been, but they'd only met twice as kids and Stiles hadn't gotten the chance to see him as he does now the first time. Stiles knows that, even if it is a bad lifetime and Peter ends up hating him or just ignoring him, the day always comes where he gets the chance to try again. It's like pressing 'reset' in a videogame.

It's a few months later when Stiles decides it's time. He looks at his little tattoo, tracing the golden threads with the pad of his finger. He's restless, and he has every right to be: this could be fatal for their friendship. Stiles could be fucking it all up for good, and it wouldn't be the first time either. There were lifetimes when Stiles had said or done things that had made Peter walk away from him during the time of their lives, leaving Stiles to watch as his tattoo slowly and painfully faded, just as it had come to be. Nothing is infallible, it had been one of his early lessons.

But this is important, and Peter just _has_ to know. It's only going to get worse if Stiles waits too long, and he can't afford that. He's convinced Peter to spend the day at the park; Stiles' nanny is a teenage girl who much prefers to be talking to her boyfriend over the cellphone than watching over Stiles, but she's permissive, so it's not a problem at all. They're currently sitting on a bench while they wait for Peter and his mom to arrive. Stiles is jiggling his left leg so fast it almost hurts, but he can't help it. He reaches for his tattoo again, safely tucked under his long-sleeved shirt, but it does nothing to calm him.

Seeing Peter getting out of his mom's car and waving at him it's what apparently works for him. Stiles smiles and runs at him, hugging him tightly. He knows that he can just do it for a few seconds before Peter thinks it's a bit weird, and Stiles treasures those seconds, breathing on Peter's clean scent before letting go. Peter wants to try the new slides that the city council had installed a couple of days ago, so they go there. Stiles also has to remember Peter _is_ actually a kid, so he plays with him for an hour before he can get his North Star to agree to have a break. They go find the picnic basket Stiles had brought from home, and they get everything settled behind a tree. He lets Peter eat almost all of Stiles' homemade cookies before he says,

"Hey, I gotta show you something."

Peter looks up, and his grass-green eyes sparkle. "Hmm?"

Stiles closes his own. "Promise me you're not gonna get mad, or... punch me."

"I won't," says Peter with a confused little frown. "Hey, show me!" He adds when Stiles doesn't move.

"Okay, okay, _jeez_."

Here goes nothing.

Peter looks at him expectantly with that wide-eyed look only kids can pull off, and Stiles takes a deep breath, wanting nothing more than to remember it forever. He closes his eyes, knowing he still has Peter's attention, and when Stiles opens them, he hears Peter gasp. Stiles knows what his eyes look like now, has seen them in the mirror many times: dark golden, like caramel. Like a fox's.

Because it's what Stiles is this time, and he needs Peter to say something.

The other boy doesn't say anything, but he also doesn't start crying, or pushes him away. He doesn't punch Stiles like the latter half-expected him to, Peter's just there, open-mouthed and staring at him.

 _Peter?_ "Nate?" he asks, just to hear something.

Peter tilts his head, shrugs, and grabs another cookie. "They're pretty, Stiles."

Stiles smiles, and he's so relieved that he agrees too fast to a race to the swing.

* * *

_2012._

The first time Stiles shows Peter his fox form, they're fifteen and drunk off their asses. It's Saturday, and they just left Jessica's, one of their classmates, birthday party. Stiles, Peter and a couple of other boys had stolen booze from her dad's cabinet on his office. Peter had said the whiskey was cheap, that he would know because his mom would _never_ buy that brand even at gunpoint, and the rest of them had agreed with him even though they know nothing about expensive whiskey. Stiles thinks Peter is adorable when he gets all serious as he explains things to people as a connoisseur would, although he suspects Peter's just taking the piss out of everyone. Stiles is always the first to fall for it.

They're walking home from the party, and Peter has his arm slung around Stiles' shoulder. He doesn't seem to be too drunk, so Stiles likes to think Peter is doing it to keep _him_ from tripping. Hey, it might be, Peter is his North Star after all.

His suspicions are confirmed when Peter grips his arm as they go upstairs. Peter's staying the night; well, he's staying _every_ night for two weeks since Stiles' mom is on vacation in Santa Monica. It's the first time she goes on vacation that far away from home on her own, and she's made Stiles swear on a _Bible_ that he won't throw wild parties or eat too much junk food. As Stiles waved her goodbye, he thought he doesn't need to do that to be happy. He had only been thinking of inviting Peter over and watch Star Wars, he doesn't need anything else.

Stiles has a spare bed in his room since they were eleven, so they both flop down on them. They're laughing, and he knows none of them know why, but they are. Something's funnier to Peter than to him, so Stiles listens to him laugh for a few seconds more and then his ragged breathing.

Peter's voice startles him out of his staring contest with the ceiling.

"Hey, you never showed me."

Stiles turns his head around to face him. "What?"

"You as a fox, idiot," says Peter, throwing his pillow at Stiles.

Stiles frowns, but then he's suddenly laughing again. It's not funny, and it's not a real laugh. He's nervous, and the alcohol must be starting to wear off since he doesn't feel so light-headed anymore.

"You really wanna see?", he asks as he stands up, taking off his jacket.

"Yeah," replies Peter, almost too quietly for him to hear.

They hadn't spoken much about Stiles being a fox since that day at the park. Peter had been a kid, and Stiles figures he just hadn't cared that much, or hadn't known how to digest it. Things hadn't changed between them, and Stiles was still as happy as ever, while also being happy that he wasn't lying to Peter anymore. They were thirteen when Stiles had shown him his fox eyes again, scared of going too far, but Peter hadn't pushed for more. He'd just say they were cool. It had been enough for Stiles in that moment.

But it isn't what Peter wants to see now.

"Okay," he says.

He's done this too many times, in his room and in the bathroom. He even went out to the park at night once, turning behind _that_ tree. Nobody except Peter knows about this, and Stiles is so scared as he feels his body transform and turn smaller. He can't will his body to move, but Peter spares him the trouble and walks over to him. He sits on the floor in front of Stiles, and he _smiles_. He smiles and Stiles feels warm relief wash over him. Peter must trust him because he's far from looking scared as he lifts up his hand and ruffles his fur. Stiles can't help but nuzzling his hand when Peter lowers it to his face.

Their eyes lock, and Peter says, "they're pretty, Stiles. Just as the rest of you."

* * *

On their fourth wedding anniversary, they're lying on their bed. Peter has a mimosa in one hand while in the other he has spray cream close to Stiles' face. Stiles knows what Peter's trying to do: make him laugh so Peter can spray it into his mouth. Stiles tries not to, but he's tipsy and so fucking happy anyways, so he gives in and laughs while he mentally curses Peter's good reflexes. His mouth is full of cream, and Peter's laughing along with him, and everything is a mess but this is a good life, and his North Star is here. They stare at each other for a few minutes before Stiles flashes his golden eyes as a sign for Peter to kiss him senseless.

He does.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your supporting comments, guys. They make me very happy!

_1992_.

The room is dark.

He hasn't opened the curtains in weeks.

There's the unpleasant smell of a small-closed place, but Stiles can't bring himself to care. He doesn't want light, he doesn't want to _see_. The light has no right to be here when Stiles has lost everything.

During the little while when Stiles is not sleeping his pain away, he thinks. He thinks, and cries, and screams. He hears his neighbors complaining about the latter, but he never opens the front door, or any door. Erica has a key to his house, and she comes every day to make sure he eats and drinks something at least, and with Stiles that's one hell of a battle. Eventually he does just to shut her up, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that he should be grateful to her, but he just wants her gone.

The weeks pass, and they turn into months. Stiles gets a little better, although slowly. _Baby steps_ , that's what Erica always says. He has replaced the bed for his couch as his mourning place, and doesn't thrash the place as often as he used to when Erica even suggested to open the curtains. Stiles still thinks they should be drawn, so they are. He also starts gaining some of the weight he's lost over those months, due to Erica's homemade cooking. She still hasn't convinced him to get out of the house though, and there are times when grief assaults Stiles all of a sudden, a knife who keeps plunging into his heart and soul.

Stiles knows he has to keep going, keep living this life. Erica, his best friend, his rock could be the reason, and Stiles so wants her to be, but she isn't. In any other lifetime, Stiles would have killed himself after watching his North Star die; he wouldn't be afraid of doing it, knowing that it wouldn't really be the end. He would have the chance to live a kinder lifetime, and Stiles almost looks forward to it. But he can't.

When he'd first met Peter in this lifetime, his little tattoo had burned and turned gold as a sunset. Peter had been everything Stiles could wish, and much more: smart, funny, clever, kind. Stiles had been so grateful to the universe for letting him experience so much joy after a couple of disastrous lifetimes. Peter's feeling had been requited, so they'd moved in together after a few months of dating.

Only for everything to be taken away by a car accident.

Stiles remembers that day more vividly than he would like to. They'd woken up in the morning, and Stiles had cooked them breakfast, which had taken more time than it should have because Peter wouldn't stop kissing his neck and Stiles had failed thrice to pour the coffee into their cups. Eventually, both of them had need to go to work, and as Peter was putting on his coat, he'd told Stiles that he would later drive by the pet shop and pick up a chubby little cat that they'd seen the past weekend was up for adoption. Stiles remembers with a fond smile the ways he'd tried to convince Peter to have a cat. First with great sex, and then with thoughtful little gifts and casual comments here and there. At last, he'd opted for giving Peter the best blowjob in the fucking _galaxy_ and he'd dropped the question when Peter was too out of it to call him on that.

It had been a cold and snowy evening, the news had warned of the roads being slicked with frost. On his way to the pet shop, Peter had lost control of his car and collided with a truck coming the opposite way.

Stiles had felt his soul being ripped apart when Erica had told him about it over the telephone, her voice thick with grief and tears. Peter had been her brother, and the police had called her to go and identify the body. Stiles hadn't wanted to go, and he'd hung up on Erica, curling up on the floor to cry. Then his tears had seemed to suddenly stop and his brain was working again. He doesn't remember calling Erica and telling her he was coming over, he doesn't even remember taking the bus.

He just remembers the yellow police lines, _do not cross_ written over and over again in big black letters. He remembers the black body bag, lying still on the sparkling snow, Erica kneeling next to it, her curly blonde hair in her fists as she wails. Stiles remembers himself, just standing there, not shivering despite the biting cold, not even shedding a single tear. The bright city lights had given everything a warm glassy glow, but the only warmth Stiles could feel in that moment had been his little tattoo, the sunset gold giving way to the dull grey.

* * *

 _1993_.

It's been months, so many that they've turned into a year. Stiles walks around their little apartment, the one they'd called home once upon a time. It's snowing outside, but Stiles hates the snow with a burning passion, so his curtains will remain shut until the spring. He's sitting on their couch, looking at a photograph. He's drunk too much beer, and his vision blurs as he stares at it under the dim light of his muted TV. They'd been really happy, hadn't they? Their smiles seem to tell Stiles so.

He feels tears burn hotly in his eyes, and his nose clogs. He just sniffs once, and places the photograph on the couch by his side. Stiles can't keep going like this, the grief overwhelming his heart every time he looks at their photograph, every time he opens a drawer and sees Peter's clothes, or his favorite body wash in the shower. It's been a year, for fuck's sake, he _must_ be stronger than this.

He could end it. He could get his gun and put a bullet in his temple. He could get a rope, and... and...

Stiles takes a sip of his beer, but he quickly sets the can on the table because he feels his stomach roll. He can't do it, not until his little tattoo has faded. But it's been a year, and it hasn't. The grey lines greet him like an old unwanted enemy, so lifeless from when they once had shone so brightly. Stiles doesn't understand, he has no recollection of his happening before. His tattoo always fades when Peter dies, but maybe it's not necessary for it to fade right away. Stiles wouldn't know, he never lives much longer without his North Star by his side.

There's a shadow by his side, Stiles can see it from the corner of his eye.

He doesn't move, but closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. _Too much beer, Stiles_. _What did you expect?_ He opens them again, and it's still there. His heart starts beating faster, and the panic makes the drunken fog dissipate in his head. His hand clutches tightly at the pillow next to him, and he musters up courage from God knows where...  
The sight is too much for his overloaded brain, and Stiles has to laugh to keep himself from crying.

It's a cruel trick his mind is playing on him. Just that, a trick. Because the shadow is just a black shirt, black pants, and a face Stiles would recognize even blind. A face that has stared at him from behind a glass frame many times, with a bright smile frozen in time. The faux face now is not smiling, but watching the photograph with a confused look. Stiles doesn't know what to do, what to think. He's been through so much shit, and just wants this to be a beer-induced hallucination because he wouldn't be able to stand it.  
But he feels the alcohol almost gone from his system, and the ghost of his North Star is still there. It feels like hours have passed without a movement from them, the only sound being the murmurs of the news reporter on the TV. Stiles is watching it because he doesn't want to turn his head and face the hallucination, doesn't think it's right to give it an identity of its own, much less the identity of his North Star. Still it doesn't go away, and Stiles knows it has its head facing the TV too.

After a while, Stiles grabs the remote control and turns up the volume without moving his head an inch. They stay like that, watching the news coverage of an ice hockey match, the voice of the reporter doing nothing to break the heavy silence between them. Stiles thinks about turning his back on the hallucination and go to sleep right there, having the feeling it would be gone by morning, only a hangover to occupy its place. But he knows he would be too anxious to sleep, so he doesn't.  
When the news are over and the infomercials are on, faux-Peter lets out a sigh, the first sound Stiles has heard it make since it appeared.

"Well, that was boring. I'm more of a basketball fan myself."

Stiles doesn't reply, but he knows. Peter had told him that on their first date, and Stiles had gone with him to basketball matches countless of times even though he doesn't care about sports. Stiles doesn't think anything of it, and figures that his mind knows Peter likes basketball, and that's why the hallucination has said that.

Stiles gets up without sparing a glance at it, stretching a bit before he sets to pick up the cans of beer on the little coffee table and takes them to the kitchen, putting them in bag and in the trash can. Stiles hasn't made any noise on purpose, just to hear what the hallucination is doing, but when he feels it standing in the kitchen ark, Stiles knows for sure it isn't real. He would have heard the steps on the wooden floor.

So he goes to his bathroom, closing the door after him, and washes his face and teeth. He takes off his shirt and throws it into the laundry basket before he goes to his bedroom. When he opens the bathroom door, he's alone in his apartment. Stiles smiles despite himself, relieved. He has his psychiatrist's number just in case, but he doesn't think he will need it, just quit getting drunk on Friday nights.

* * *

Stiles wakes up in the morning with a world-class hangover. His head is pounding and the dim sunrays coming off the closed curtains are still enough to hurt his eyes. At least it has stopped snowing. Stiles gets up from the bed and goes for a piss; he still seems to be the only person in the apartment, and relief washes over him. After he's done, he goes to the kitchen for an aspirin and a very welcome cup of hot coffee.

He stops dead in his tracks.

The hallucination has made itself at home, sitting at the table with its hands folded before it, just waiting for Stiles. It notices Stiles staring at him, and it smiles warmly as if it were the real Peter on a lazy and quiet Saturday morning.

"Hello, sweetheart. Did you sleep well? You seem to have placed the aspirins somewhere else."

Stiles nods at it without thinking. Faux-Peter is right: the aspirins used to be in the bathroom before, but Stiles had put them in the kitchen one night because it was closer, and they'd been there ever since. But when he goes to get them, his heart twists inside his chest.

The door of the top drawer on the left, where the aspirins are, is open.

Stiles feels dizzy, and grabs for the edge of the counter to stop himself from falling to the floor. He tries to get himself together, but his thoughts are scattered around, and he needs to think, to _remember_. Has he left it open by mistake last night? No, he's never even opened it in the first place, he'd just thrown the beer cans in the trash.

Stiles turns his head. The hallucination is watching him with those light-brown eyes he knows so well. There's no look of amusement or malice on them, not even confusion. Something like curiosity, maybe. Stiles is so damn tired, but still resolves not to acknowledge its presence. Fake it till you make it, they say? _I will_.

Until two months ago, Stiles had been on psychiatric leave. Peter's death had crushed him, body and spirit, and his depression had left him unable to do anything on his own. Erica had been a lighthouse on a stormy sea, and still is, coming almost every day to his home and calling him on the phone when she can't. Stiles has felt guilty for being a burden to her, given that Peter had been her brother too, but she had assured him that Stiles would never be a burden. He knows she's suffering too, but they have each other to lean on, and Erica has always been the kind to compartmentalize her feelings.

It's Monday, and he's at the office. Stiles has learned this past year to ignore people's looks or words. Some of his co-workers had been sympathetic enough to offer their condolences for his "best friend's untimely passing". Others know better: they know Peter wasn't just a friend, and the condolences some of them have offered Stiles were laced with a bit of disgust. Stiles is past that, after everything he's been through in this life and the other hundreds.

Janet at the reception asks him if he's been sleeping well lately. Stiles assures her he is, just a bit stressed out, and makes a joke that falls completely flat. He's aware of how he looks, and that he hasn't slept more than two hours since Saturday, but Janet, although she's a nice girl, is not that much of a friend.

After work, Stiles has a session with his psychiatrist. His job had granted him one, an old woman whose office smelled so much like roses that Stiles felt like throwing up for hours after. When he'd told Erica about it, she'd given him a referral. Dr. Sanchez is a man in his 30s, with a low pleasant voice and kind eyes.

"How are you feeling today, Stiles?" he asks.

"Fine."

Dr. Sanchez looks at him, writes something in his notebook, but doesn't comment on the lie.

"Have you been sleeping well these days?"

"No." There's no point in lying about that. "I mean, it's been a tough weekend, that's all."

The doctor nods. "And have you taken your sleeping pills?"

"Just half of one last night. They make me feel too groggy to function."

Stiles had had the _amazing_ idea on last night of drowning himself in his sleeping pills. He doesn't want to kill himself, not anymore at least, but he'd thought they would probably get rid of his tormenting hallucination for a day, his job be damned. He'd even set up everything he would need to make it happen, included a shot of whiskey to wash them down. Faux-Peter had been sitting on the couch by his side as Stiles stared at the pills in his hand, willing himself to do it. At last, it had been too hard to ignore the hallucination's pleas, so Stiles had gone to the bathroom with it on his heels, and flushed the pills and the bottle of whiskey down the toilet.

He would tell Dr. Sanchez none of that. Because it doesn't even make sense in his _own_ head, much less in the head of someone with a PhD.

"Is that all you meant when you said you had a tough weekend, Stiles? That you had trouble sleeping?" Dr. Sanchez asks, uncapping the water bottle and pouring them both a glass.

Stiles shakes his head. "I've just been thinking about him, I guess."

It isn't a lie. Hallucinating with your dead boyfriend makes you think about him whether you try to ignore it or not, and for Stiles, thinking about Peter in any way makes him think about his death too.

Dr Sanchez seems to have picked up on that. "Could you explain to me how?"

"Just him. His death, mostly. But I've been looking at our photograph, and I've thought about things. Our happiness."

"Do you think the two of you haven't been happy?"

"No. I mean, yes, we've been happy." _At least I was. Why else would I be hallucinating with him? I miss him too much._

"So what is it? Stiles, you know his death wasn't your fault," the doctor adds, and Stiles feels the dam break.

"I shouldn't have told him to go get the cat from the pet shop. I could've gone myself, or... we could've gone some other day. The next weekend, maybe..."

"Stiles," Dr. Sanchez calls him, firmly but not unkindly. "It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have avoided it, no matter what you tell yourself. It's called an accident for a reason, you know? None of us can predict them, and none of us can avoid them. And we can't certainly turn back time."

Stiles' tears are running down his cheeks freely now, and he reaches for the box of tissues Dr. Sanchez hands him. It isn't the first time Stiles has told him he feels guilty about Peter's death, and the doctor always answer the same thing, albeit with different words. Stiles knows there's no other answer for that: technically it wasn't his fault. Peter could have been killed during a robbery, or the bus could have crashed. Hell, he could've even had a stroke in the middle of the street, but Stiles would have still been the one who'd sent him.

Dr Sanchez knows that Stiles thinks that, Stiles has told him many times, but the answer will still be the same. He spends the rest of the session talking about happy times with Peter because his brain can't just keep thinking about it. Then he goes home.

* * *

A week passes by. It's almost routine for Stiles: wake up, go to work, come home, nibble at his dinner, and then go to sleep. His hallucination comes and goes like the lord and master of the apartment (well, Peter was the owner of it, actually. Erica is now renting it to Stiles for free). Except for that incident with the sleeping pills, Faux-Peter is quiet most of the time, only making a remark or comment here and there. Stiles has almost grown used to it, almost. He wakes up sometimes in the middle of the night and makes up a excuse in his head to get a glass of water just to go to the kitchen and see if the hallucination is still sitting on his couch. He is, more often than not. None of them say anything, though, and Stiles finds it much easier that way.

What he's currently not finding is his goddamned bottle of ketchup. It's Saturday and he's invited Erica over for dinner. She's sitting on the couch, bowl of homemade chips in one hand and watching the second season of _Married... with Children_. Stiles curses loudly, Erica calls him on it, and he tells her he can't find it and _God, Erica, move your ass sometime, would you?_

"Top shelf on the left, behind the oil bottle. And you could never force my sister to help you find something, Stiles, you know that."

Stiles shivers all over at hearing that voice. His hallucination was supposed to be gone for today, that's why he'd invited Erica to stay the night. He moves the oil can out of the way, and yes indeed, the bottle of ketchup is there in all its plastic-red glory. Stiles doesn't think when he says, "Thanks. And yeah, I know."

"What was that?" asks Erica from the couch, lowering the volume to hear Stiles' answer.

Stiles realizes what he's done, and groans to himself. He's replied to a hallucination. Good fucking job, Stiles. He looks over at Faux-Peter because what else has he to lose, and sees it sitting at the table, a small smile on his lips. Is it _rejoicing_? Stiles shuts the cabinet door harder than he'd intended.

For the rest of the night, Stiles' attention is somewhere else, and he's just listening to Erica and the TV with one ear. His hallucination hasn't said anything else, but Stiles can feel it watching them both from the table behind them, and it's making him uncomfortable. When the last episode ends, Stiles fakes a headache from the beer they've been drinking and Erica tells him to go to bed. He does, and she settles her pillows and blankets on the couch.

The next morning, Stiles finds Erica has gone home from a little pink post-it note on his fridge. Who isn't gone this time is his little intruder, pacing the kitchen with a thoughtful look.

"Good morning, Stiles. You're almost out of coffee, and I think the little Korean store around the corner closes at 1pm on Sundays."

"What the _fuck_ do you want?" Stiles yells as he makes his way to the kitchen. "Leave me the fuck alone!"

Stiles grabs the coffee jar and throws it across the room. It breaks in a thousand little shards of glass and leaves a brown stain on his wall.

"I can't," says the hallucination.

"Why not? You're dead, I know you're not real. You're _dead_."

Faux-Peter shakes his head. "No, I'm not," he adds, sadly.

Stiles sighs. _What the hell does that even mean?_

"Look, buddy. You're just a figment of my depressed imagination. You died in a car accident, and I miss you like nothing else, but that's the truth. I need to release you because I can't really keep going on like this. It's not fair."

Faux-Peter has walked to where the glass is scattered on the floor, and stares at the little shards, a troubled expression on his face. Stiles hasn't seen many of his expressions before, mainly because he's ignored it since it appeared in his life.

"Stiles."

"What?"

"If you think I'm not real, then how could you throw the coffee jar I placed on the counter for you, across the room?"

Stiles freezes.

_No._

_No, it can't be. Please, no._

"You..." he starts, but no more words come out. He rubs his face with his hands, trying hard to, to think of anything to say, but his mind's blank. Stiles must be stronger than he thinks because no tears threaten to come out, and his voice barely wavers when he asks,

"How did you do it?"

Peter frowns for a second, and shakes his head. He walks over to Stiles, but when Peter reaches for Stiles' hand, it goes right through.

"I can't... I don't know, I just focus and it happens."

In retrospective, this situation shouldn't be so surreal. Stiles had been a werewolf in his original lifetime, and Peter too. He lives through lifetimes, for fuck's sake. Stiles takes a look at his little grey tattoo, and he finally understands the reason why it hasn't faded after a year. His North Star is still here, somehow.

Stiles smiles, but it's a sad one. "I miss you."

"Me too, sweetheart, you don't know how much."

"I'm sorry," says Stiles, his hand unconsciously reaching for Peter's face. He stops himself mid-way. "I'm sorry for everything. I wish I..."

"Shh," Peter hushes him. "None of this was your fault. It's okay, we're here, and you know now. It's okay."

But it isn't, and Stiles is crying because there's nothing he can do. He has been hurting for so long, and he just wants it to stop. He wants _everything_ to stop. Peter sits with him on the kitchen floor and lets him cry because there's nothing he can do about it either. In their own way, they're both powerless.

Eventually, Stiles has to get up from the floor because his ass cheeks are numb. It's so silly that it makes him giggle despite himself, and when Peter raises an eyebrow, Stiles tells him. They laugh, and Stiles is crying for a different reason now. He's breathless, and when he looks around and sees the brown stain on the wall, he sighs.

"Shit, I don't even have _any_ coffee now."

Peter nods, and then asks. "Do they still close at 1pm on Sundays?"

"Yeah. Wanna come?"

* * *

 _1994_.

Another year passes, and Stiles is doing well, all things considered. There hasn't been any major changes in his life, though: he lives in the same apartment, does the same things he's always done, and keeps the curtains shut on winter. He still hates the snow, but he's learned to tolerate it.

Stiles is currently curled up on the couch, a cup of hot coffee on his hand as they watch a basketball match. Stiles can't for the life of him say which teams are playing, but he still doesn't care about sports. Peter, however, is engrossed. Stiles finds the sight too endearing to interrupt it by asking, so he doesn't.

It gives him some time to think. He still has to pretend Peter's not here when Erica comes to visit, but Peter has told Stiles he doesn't mind. Peter rolls his eyes and gives a snide comment or two whenever Erica says something that's, well, _Erica_ -kind of bizarre. Stiles always has to cover his mouth to keep himself from laughing.

Stiles also has to keep in mind that he can't be seen talking alone when he's on the street and Peter has decided to join him. That was the reason why Stiles had banned him forever from his job at the office, because Peter's comments are too distracting.

There are still times when Stiles is too upset to even get up from bed, especially when the anniversary of Peter's death is around the corner, and a while after that too. Peter is so patient though, and it's not as bad as it could be. Not as bad as it had been the first year.

His little tattoo hasn't turned gold again, but at night when Stiles is under the covers and Peter is watching him with a loving smile and sparkling eyes, Stiles knows that it's still worth it.


End file.
